


The kiss

by mrua7



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 09:26:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10637010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: Illya, on leave from the Soviet Navy, visits an island near his one time home of Kyiv.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [avrovulcan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avrovulcan/gifts).



> This was originally posted for the 2013 Valentine challenge on mfu scrapbook.

 

 

 

 

  
                        

The weather was unseasonably warm when Illya Kuryakin was released for his first leave from his duty on board the submarine Moskva.

Something pulled at his heart, perhaps seeing the Cossack horse on that Island in the White sea urged him to travel to Hortitsa, another island. This one was in the middle of the Dneiper River running directly through Kyiv, separating the city into the right and left banks.  There he traveled to the ancient Kazak village of Zaporoche, so named after the once proud Zaporozhian Cossacks.

It was the closest he’d been to home since he was found as a child, nearly starved to death on the streets of Kyiv during the Great Patriotic War, and from there was taken off to an orphanage in Moskva. 

When he arrived at Zaporoche, he found it nearly deserted, as the Cossack population had been decimated during the war, as well as by Stalin.  Hitler wasn’t the only one who attempted genocide...  The Kazaki had their uses to Joseph Stalin, but now in a time of Soviet superiority, they were cast aside like a child tosses aside a toy that has lost his interest, but in this case they weren’t forgotten, they were being eliminated, little by little.

Illya had seen it himself on the Kuban steppes, the month before he left for his assignment on board the Moskva.  He had visited with the Kubanskiye Kazaki, who were descended from the Zaporoche, hoping to learn how to ride like them. He was accepted as one of them and taught their ways, lived with them and loved with them. It was a wonderful time for him, but near the end of his stay, the Red Army appeared out of nowhere, murdering the Cossack tribe as part of an ethnic cleansing. *

No one cared...

All he had were his memories and a small golden icon that he rescued from the blood-soaked steppes. That he kept as a reminder of the gentleness of those people, the Kubanskiye Kazaki.

He walked about, seeing the old wooden church where Father Demya had held services for what was left of his people.

The Church of St. Andrew had been closed in Kyiv, and the priest fled to the island in fear of being sent to the gulag. Father Demya was given shelter in the Kuryakin dacha, along his journey and Illya as a young child treasured his visit.  

The priest died defending this  plain wooden church and Illya searched for the man’s grave, but did so in vain. There were rarely graves for those who lost their lives during that time in history, including Illya’s own family.

 

                    

 

He suddenly felt a tingling sensation as it danced across his skin, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention;  he was being watched and he turned quickly to see a girl standing at a distance.  Her long dark hair was blowing in the wind, like the mane of the black horse standing proudly beside her.

She waved to him, and that gave the young blond the signal he needed to safely approach her.

“Vy ne zdeshniy_you are not from around here, “she said.

“Nu, tekhnicheski ya ... YA rodilsya v Kiyeve. Menya zovut Illya , Illya Nickovich_well, technically I am...I was born in Kyiv. My name is Illya, Illya Nickovich.”

“Menya zovut Agrafina_my name is Agrafina,”

She revealed a beautiful smile, and he let her dark, almond-shaped eyes draw him in.

Her name meant ‘wild horse,’ and that to a young man such as Illya Kuryakin, had some interesting connotations.

“Why are you here, you are not Cossack?”

At first he said nothing of his virtual adoption by Yuri Borosovich and the Kubanskiye  
Kazaki of the steppes.*

“The Kazak people hold a special place in my heart.  I knew the priest Father Demya as a child and heard he died here defending his church. I was just looking for a grave to pay my respects. It has been many years since I have been anywhere near Kyiv.”

“You won’t find it here near the church,” she whispered, “ the government... well you know. My grandfather buried the priest in the woods not far from here and erected a small cross. Would you like me to take you to it?”

“Yes please, very much.”

Illya approached her horse, giving it a rub and the animal in turn nuzzled him.  “I am sorry, I have no carrots for you,” he spoke softly to it.

“Ah you are a lover of horses, they can tell that. My Zarya does not take to just anyone.”

“I spent time among the Kubanskie Kazaki and was taught to ride the Cossack way. It was a wonderful, but too short a time.  Sadly I was there  on the Kuban steppes when they were massacred by troops sent by our government.”

“Yes, we heard of that, they were our clan as well. There are so few left of us that I think Stalin cannot be bothered with us here. I fear we will eventually die out, and that will suit his purposes,” she sadly bowed her head.

Agrafina led Illya to a small clearing in the woods, and there pointed out the white Orthodox cross set apart from a few others.

“He is there,” she said. “I was little when the Nazis came and killed so many. I remember he  was very nice, and I liked his stories. The others buried here are members of my family.”  She tied her horse’s reins to a nearby branch, stepping over to a patch of wildflowers, gathering them for the graves,  and leaving Illya to visit the burial place of the priest.

“Zdravstvuyte Otets , eto ya, Illya...illya Nicovich  Kuryakin....hello Father, it's me, Illya, Illlya Nicovich. I am sorry you died before I could ever see you again. I finally visited the Kubanskie Kazaki...well I suppose you know that. Thank you for sharing your stories with me when I was little. I was too small then to tell you how much they meant to me..."

He didn’t know why he was doing this, speaking to a dead man as if he could hear. Illya was torn between a belief in the existence of an afterlife or not;  that seed of doubt having been planted, thanks to the State.  Deep down he believed in a God, but was still angry at Him for having let the Nazis take his family during the war, leaving him the sole survivor. The loss  of so many other innocents during the war weighed heavily on him as did the deaths of the Kazaki. At times he found it hard to believe the loving God of his Babushka could allow such cruelty.*

“Father Demya was a great man, he saved many lives at the cost of his own,” Agrifina said as she stepped up beside him, offering a handful of flowers for Illya to put on the man’s grave.  He took them from her, and kneeling down, he scattered them about.

“You say no prayer?” She asked, seeing Illya not bless himself.

“No, but that is something I do not want to discuss if you do not mind.”

“As you wish....are you hungry Illya Nickovich?”

“Always,” he smiled in earnest now.

Agrafina took him to her simple home, introducing him to her grandparents, and there he was fed a lovely meal, he recalled in fact, it was the same last meal he and his family had shared with Father Demya. It was a simple root vegetable stew, ‘Ragu iz Ovoshchey,’ the ingredients of which were cooked until soft in texture, the way Russians preferred it.

After they finished eating and Agrifina’s chores were done, she asked her new friend if he wanted to go for a ride with her along the river.

Illya’s  eyes gave away his delight, as he thought he’d never again have the chance of riding a Cossack horse, much less alongside a beautiful Kazak girl.

The horse she brought him was a lively red stallion named, Vechernyaya zvezda_evening star and together he and Agrifina and her horse Zarya, which translated to morning star, rode along the the shoreline of the Dneiper river.

The light of the now setting sun blazed in the sky, casting its bright orange glow on the mirror-like surface of the river. It was the ending of  the day, but it’s warmth allowed the Russian and the Kazak girl to free themselves of their coats.

Illya showed her a few of the riding tricks he’d been taught by old Mykola and she smiled, clapping her hands in delight.  Together they galloped the horses in the surf, racing after each other until they finally slowed them down to a gentle canter, riding side by side.  All the while, Agrafina kept glancing over at the blond blue-eyed Russian.

Illya felt her dark-eyed gaze, and each time he caught her looking at him, it seemed to intensify.

He reined his horse to a stop right beside her and sensing her desire, he leaned across, kissing her, and she responded to him. It all happened so quickly as he pulled her from her horse, over to him, holding her in his arms as he kissed her again, and deeply this time, exploring her mouth with his tongue.

That kiss ignited the fire of desire between them and they dismounted the horse, laying in the reed covered dunes along the strand, and there they made love.  Their bodies intertwined as they moved, moaning and thrusting in unison, losing themselves in each other.  Their hands and lips roamed everywhere, yet Illya held back until Agrafina cried out her pleasure, and it was then he released himself to feel his own exquisite moment within her.

There they lay side by side in the warm sand, the only witnesses now to their brief interlude...the sky, as well as the Morning and Evening Stars watching over them.

Again Illya sighed. Life was good...if just for this moment, and that would have to be enough.  
.

 

 

* ref  “Zaporoche” <http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/218041.html>

 

 

.Mood music for this piece: seven-eleven at-

<https://soundcloud.com/moishesbagel>

 


End file.
